


Man of the Year

by DarcyFarrow



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Little bit of Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 18:09:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20362846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarcyFarrow/pseuds/DarcyFarrow
Summary: Howard and Vince are attending a big event and, like always, Vince is late.





	Man of the Year

Late. Like always, late. Despite the fact that Howard had thought he'd got the best of Vince this time by setting the clocks in their hotel room ahead two hours. Late, despite the fact that Howard had plastered yellow "It starts at 7, you berk" Post-Its in all the places Vince would look: the clothes closet, the mirrors, the Goth Juice can. For cryin' out loud, he'd even stuck one to the toe of Vince's silver boot. Late. Despite the fact that this was the most exciting night of the year for Britain's entire jazz community, the single time of the year when Ragtime and Dixieland and Trad set aside their differences to come together, united for the cause, and, therefore, a night more important to Howard than Christmas and birthdays all rolled into one. Late. Of course.

Howard smacked his palm against the brick casement (genuine brick, set off with an antique brass poker. This was The friggin' Carlyle, for godssake, no half-measures here. Howard had been squeezing pennies all year to afford a room here, knowing full well Vince wouldn't contribute ten pence though he vowed earnestly, every year, he would. There was always another pair of boots, another pair of drainpipes in the storefront that just had to claim its place in Vince's closet.)

Howard pushed off the fireplace and dropped onto a brocade settee. Eleven minutes late. The introductions would be well underway now, the shrimp cocktails being served. Howard did so enjoy a shrimp cocktail. The friends (well, more like penpals, maybe) with whom Howard and Vince were to be sharing a table would be casting puzzled glances at the two empty chairs. In another five minutes, as the rosemary chicken was being served and the next speaker taking the podium, his tablemates would murmur a few disgruntled sounds before Swelterin' Delta Donny's keynote speech "The Necessity of a Strong Jazz Presence in a Soulless Modern World" swept all other thoughts away. 

And here Howard, Britain's acknowledged leading expert in all things Swelterin', slumped, on a settee beside a lobby fireplace (though, admittedly, a very pretty settee beside a very clean fireplace), late, no doubt because Vince couldn't choose between the violet and the lavender socks. Which would go unseen all night anyway, stuffed into those silver boots.

Howard yanked a small pencil and notebook from his inside pocket (he'd planned to take notes for the _Southside Hep Cat Quarterly_) and flipped to the first unused page. "Problems with Vince," he scrawled: inelegantly expressed, but he was too angry for poetic expression). Problem #1 required no thought: PUNCTUALITY. He was tempted to start a sub-list of all the times Vince had made them late for an event, but there weren't enough pages in the notebook.

The next eleven items on the list came to pencil quickly: vanity, overspending, loquacity, impulsiveness, trend-following (well, to give Vince his due, that should be "trend-setting"), obsession with the irrelevant,laziness (well, he did put in some long hours and lots of elbow grease in designing those outfits), disinterest in all things intellectual, no sense of history (unless you counted Vince's success in bringing back the cravat to Camden for all of two weeks), primitive taste, tendency to flit about like a half-witted social butterfly. 

As he reviewed the list, Howard grew angrier and angrier. A spontaneous burst of laughter and applause leaking through the closed doors of the banquet hall only threw gasoline on his inflamed soul. He deliberated snapping his pencil--the satisfying snap would relieve some of the tension--but then he'd have to ask the desk clerk for a replacement and that would only draw embarrassing attention, perhaps even pity for the nattily attired, perfectly coiffed jazzman loitering alone in the lobby. 

But then Howard's head jerked up to the click of a heel on a stairstep, the hum of appreciation from said desk clerk (and the undisguised "ooooh" of sudden sexual interest from a trio of female passersby), followed by the soft blushing expression of compliment acceptance and modesty (how was it that Noir could juggle such sweet self-consciousness with unwavering--and earned--confidence in his appearance?). Howard dropped his pencil. 

The perfect form-fitting lines of the tuxedo gave Vince the illusion of being tall and, at the same time, small. The sheen of his black jacket set off the width of his narrow shoulders and the carefree tumble of his black hair. The sapphire silk shirt peeking out through the vee of the closed jacket emphasized the bright blue of Vince's innocent but mischievous eyes, which were at the moment gracing the ladies with a slightly flirty but slightly embarrassed gaze, as if to bring all four of them into a private joke. White teeth, one of them charmingly slightly crooked, flashed behind Vince's ever-present grin. "Good evening, ladies." He dipped a nod toward them before resuming his dance down the stairs. On the last step he paused, his smile wavering as he assessed his companion's mood. "Good evening, Howard."

My word, he was wearing black Italian loafers.

A new top ten Vince list popped, fully formed, into Howard's mind: knows how to make an entrance, dresses for the occasion, yet stands out from the crowd, brings light into every room, carries himself with an innate elegance, tempers pride with modesty, puts people at ease as graciously as the Queen does (or better, because she took lessons in it), loves people, loves life, loves me.

Through the closed doors boomed the MC's baritone: "And the award for Jazzman of the Year, Southern Division, Non-Professional Category, goes to Lester Corncrake!"

Howard tossed his notebook into the fireplace and stepped forward, arms open.


End file.
